


i could give up all my life for just one kiss

by athellos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ? maybe? like just the normal amount for a go fic i guess, Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Asexuality, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, a shitton of foot notes, also, aziraphale accidentally inspires a song, here's to hoping ig, i feel im not worthy of writing Mr Mercury into my good omens fic, i hope he can forgive me on the premise that this is very very gay, listen im trying new stuff, me writing the bentley:, mostly based on the tv show, n e ways if michael sheen ever reads this: u chaotic bastard i hope you enjoy this, oh the plot yes, so fucking stupid good lord, the bastard car just wants the demon and the angel to get together for fucks sake, this car is just me. im the car. this is my self insert., yanno cause they're fucking stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:13:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athellos/pseuds/athellos
Summary: See, the musician was having trouble writing a song. He had a general tune in his head, and some stray words that meant nothing, truly, and he’d gotten so frustrated he’d sneaked out into the nearest place in which he could find some solace, namely, alcohol.On the other hand, the tartan-clad man’s sorrows were… a little bit different.But there’s always a middle ground to be met.The musician needed a story and the man needed an ear.the one where aziraphale inspires a song, but it's not the one that you're thinking about.





	i could give up all my life for just one kiss

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! how are yall?? this is my first gomens fic!! the premise was basically "yanno that hc that crowley rambled about aziraphale to freddie mercury and inspired good old fashioned loverboy? what if.... it was actually aziraphale that drunk rambled to a moustached stranger and unknowingly inspired a song?"
> 
> the ending is soft as fuck so. hope that's what ur here for.
> 
> A MILLION THANKS TO MY LOVELY BETA sunnyjolras, CAITIE, WHO WAS KIND ENOUGH TO FACT CHECK MY POOR ATTEMPTS AT BRITISH SLANG!!! ily <3

One fateful day —more accurately, one September 18th, 1976, in Hyde Park, London— a little song would be sung in front of two hundred thousand people. On the singer and songwriter’s part, it’s important that the reader knows that he was feeling quite nervous that day, to the point where he didn’t know whether or not his vocal cords would cooperate.

That song, however, ended up being the second in the list of an album that would be remembered decades later.

If the reader is interested, here are some facts about that song:

It’s written in Cm, or Do minor, if the reader prefers the Italian way of reading music.

It’s on a 4/4 compass.

It can be categorized as a ballad.

As for the actual song’s content, people are still currently debating who it was written about. One can log onto different internet forums and see a plethora of people theorizing whether it was written about a woman named Mary or a man named David, many even getting into passive-agressive fights on behalf of their stances on the matter.

Some read,

_“david minns inspired.....he wasnt with mary tho...x”_

While others went,

_“I'm sure it was inspired by Mary. It was the direct follower to 'Love Of My Life' (which was definitely dedicated to Mary). A very sad song, predicting the end of relationship…”_

And,

_“Is David a credible source or did he make an assumption that it was about him?_  
_I feel that it is NOT about Mary only because the emotions behind the song seem so intense, so longing as though he is speaking about someone he can't have, or someone that just left him. And I don't mean Mary because although he loved Mary I don't think he felt this intensity with her._  
_Or maybe it is just speaking of the love he had hoped to find somewhere, sometime and how he imagined it would be._  
_I just love the song, although it tears my heart into a million pieces.”_[1]

However, what none of these little humans know is that it was never written about someone of their kind.

The writer hadn’t known this, of course, how could he? He had never actually met the fellow, and even if he had, he’d have probably assumed him to be a man— or a woman, depending on that fellow’s current gender expression.

Instead, he’d met a man that was the textbook antonym of _stone-cold sober._

He’d met him at a bar, which isn’t a surprise at all. After all, that’s where most pining idiots go to wallow. His look wasn’t a surprise either; the musician had seen people out and about, who looked like their wardrobe came from a different century, and he wasn’t inclined to give much thought to other people’s fashion choices— besides, the man looked like he was in his forties, and gave the impression he was a University Literature professor, which he though justified the style. What was surprising was the contrast between the tartan look and the hole in the wall they currently found themselves in.

This bar wasn’t exactly… nice. It was a bit dark, and some might think the state of the pint glasses dubious at best, but it had alcohol, and that’s something apparently these two people deemed good enough.

See, the musician was having trouble writing a song. He had a general tune in his head, and some stray words that meant nothing, truly, and he’d gotten so frustrated he’d sneaked out into the nearest place in which he could find some solace, namely, alcohol.

On the other hand, the tartan-clad man’s sorrows were… a little bit different.

But there’s always a middle ground to be met.

The musician needed a story and the man needed an ear.

The man remarked a fair amount of times during their conversation that he shouldn't need an ear. Something about, “Can’t talk about it to anyone else… if they found out…” 

The musician, a bisexual man, is no stranger to the feeling. The tartan-clad lad slurs through his words in his drunken state, and never truly finishes that sentence, but Freddie can infer what he means.

This, however, is not how that conversation starts.

This conversation starts when the drunk man, sitting in a corner booth of this tiny bar, where there’s five patrons total, calls the bartender and goes, “One more!” and slumps on his table. He mumbles something beneath his breath and continues, “Heaven’s sake, one more for everyone!”

What brings this man to say this, Freddie doesn’t know. He’s only human[2], and therefore, there’s no way he could sense that it’s not only him who has pressing matters weighing him down, but instead, everyone in this building; from the bartender to the lonely woman sitting on a barstool, to the people living upstairs. Every single one of them is apparently, to some extent or the other, bummed out tonight. Whether that’s a coincidence is debatable. [3]

He’s sitting at a table across from the man, drink in hand.

“You sure you wanna do that, lad?” he asks him. “There aren’t many of us here, but it doesn’t seem like you’re too steady on your feet, you know?”

The man picks his head up and slurs through more words that sound something like “need it”, “miracle” and “young boy”. Or at least those are the ones Freddie can make out.

He resumes sulking while Freddie gets a new drink on his table, delivered by the bartender. 

It takes about two more minutes of seeing his neighbor brooding for Freddie to pick his drink and deposit it opposite to the man, along with himself.

“What’s wrong, old chap?” He asks, and the man gets startled. Apparently, he hasn’t heard him slide into the booth with him.

The man stares at him in confusion, his mouth not really forming any words.

“You’ve bought me a drink,” he says, and takes a sip to punctuate his statement. “You look like you need someone to lend you and ear, yea? Let me return the favor.”

The man sighs, his body deflating into his seat. He looks up at the ceiling and then closes his eyes.

“What’s the problem?” Freddie insists.

“My… friend.” The word escapes his mouth in an exhale. 

“What about them?”

As reluctant to speak this man was, it seems, at this point, it’s like a damn that has broken; the story pours out of him like liters of water looking to right their natural course. 

And although there’s not much accuracy to the events he’s telling —everyone is nameless, like the man himself, and so are the places and years— Freddie understands.

This man is _madly_ in love.

And he’s devastated by it.

It bleeds through when he tells him about the moment when he realizes, the sudden _oh, this is how I feel, and I've felt for ages and how could I’ve been so blind_ after an act of kindness from his friend, one so deeply rooted in affection, especially after a falling out that had kept them away from each other for a long period of time; an act that shows how sincerely his friend cares about him.

But then again, how could they possibly care, when they also plan to leave the man behind, were the worst to come their way? When it’s clear the man sitting in front of him wants to trust that they won’t abandon him, after everything?

But what else could the man believe, when his friend has asked him for a way out? And he’s given it to them?

The man is torn. What to believe? Who to trust?

One thing is clear, he’d follow his friend to the end of the world, for there’s no world he’d want to live in where they’re not standing side by side. 

And there’s no standing side by side if this world were to end.

* * *

The Bentley 3 ½-Litre was a handsome model of a car. It rolled out of factories for the first time in 1933, being the first Bentley model to be put in the market after Rolls-Royce bought the brand.

Like most cars, Bentleys were just cars; a vintage automobile fanatic might disagree with such a statement, but it remains true in escence: it’s a man-made metal contraption, it has an engine and four wheels, and its purpose is to take individuals from one place to the other.

That’s true for all Bentleys but one.

This particular Bentley shouldn’t be different from its siblings: it remembers coming from the same stock, but it is, nonetheless, different. Maybe, the same fact that this car has the possibility to remember such a thing is what sets it apart from the rest.

The reason behind its uniqueness comes from none other than its owner, who’s never truly learnt how to drive but does anyways, because he believes he can.

That belief was passed on to the Bentley, who took it upon itself to make it possible for the demon to hit the pedal and go as fast as he could without running over anyone. [4]

Now, the demon, Crowley, is not aware that’s what’s happening. He just believes, and so the Bentley wills.

So, it's not surprising that that isn't everything he’s subconsciously rendered the Bentley capable of achieving.

The Bentley’s radio is often on. One of Crowley’s favourite human inventions is music, without a doubt.

That morning, when Crowley hops on the driver's seat and turns the radio on, it starts at the end of a song.

_“—ombody to love.”_

The Bentley can feel Crowley’s disappointment; it’s a good song, and he’s missed it. So it’s no wonder the next few minutes play out like the following.

Crowley pulls the Bentley into the street and starts driving to the angel’s bookshop. The Bentley knows this road by heart[5], so it doesn’t really have to work a lot to make up for Crowley recklessness. Instead, it can pay attention to other stuff.

Stuff like the radio host’s voice going , “This has been Queen’s _Somebody to Love_! Next up, from the same album…” and as he says the song’s name, the first _Oooh_ can be heard.

_Oh,_ the Bentley thinks, as it turns the volume up. _“Oooh take it take it all away”_ the radio croons. _Oh,_ the Bentley thinks again, _Crowley’s ought to listen to this._

Crowley is blissfully ignorant to the Bentley’s musings, if only a bit curious about the reason of the volume increase. He keeps driving as the radio keeps singing, and the feeling that _this is important_ the Bentley has, only increases in intensity.

_“Oooh oooh take my breath away_  
_Oooh oooh you take my breath away_

_Look into my eyes and you'll see I'm the only one_  
_You've captured my love stolen my heart_  
_Changed my life_  
_Every time you make a move you destroy my mind_  
_And the way you touch_  
_I lose control and shiver deep inside_  
_You take my breath away”___

_ __ _

The Bentley doesn’t know if it’s because it thinks it is important that Crowley really starts paying attention to the lyrics, that the demon does. Maybe the part of Crowley that’s been imprinted into its steering wheel is still connected to the demon in a way he’s unaware of, and the Bentley actually has a chance of communicating with its owner, unlike previously believed. [6][7]

The radio continues.

_“You can reduce me to tears with a single sigh_  
_Every breath that you take_  
_Any sound that you make is a whisper in my ear_  
_I could give up all my life for just one kiss_  
_I would surely die if you dismiss me from your love_  
_You take my breath away”_

Crowley’s breath gets caught in his throat. The Bentley is fairly certain its owner doesn’t actually need to breathe, he’s just gotten used to it. It’s no surprise the breath is held for the remainder of the song.

_“So please don't go_  
_Don't leave me here all by myself_  
_I get ever so lonely from time to time_  
_I will find you anywhere you go_  
_I'll be right behind you_  
_Right until the ends of the earth_  
_I'll get no sleep until I find you_  
_To tell you that you just take my breath away_

_I will find you anywhere you go_  
_Right until the ends of the earth_  
_I'll get no sleep until I find you_  
_To tell you when I've found you_  
_I love you_

_Take my breath take my breath ... away”_

The Bentley has no clue why this was so important, but it was, and it had felt it the moment the song had started. 

Crowley had felt the importance of the song too. Unlike the Bentley, he has reasons.

But neither the Bentley, nor Crowley, actually know the magnitude, the significance, the momentousness of the song.

Fateful[8], that that would be the song played that day, at that specific moment, when Crowley sits in his car and hopes for another Queen song to come on the radio, without asking specifically for one or the other. _Just any, that’d do._

And this one is the one that plays.

He arrives at Aziraphale’s. They share wine.

The next day, he goes into a music shop and buys all of the Queen cassettes he doesn’t already own. He never puts them on, but the Bentley plays them anyways.

The Bentley never plays anything else.

* * *

They leave the Ritz. They’ve surely overstayed their welcome: lunch turning into dessert, and seconds, then coffee, then more wine, making a detour for some tea and getting back on track for dinner.

After all, it’s the first time in centuries they don’t feel the pressure to leave for somewhere more secluded, somewhere where they won’t be found out. Maybe it's the first time in history, actually.

It’s not until Crowley, approaching his car, asks, “Back to your bookshop, then?” that Aziraphale falters.

“Ah,” he mumbles, as he stops mid-stride towards the Bentley.

Crowley looks at him over his sunglasses. “Everything alright, angel?” He means to sound casual, but his tone betrays his concern.

Aziraphale can’t explain it at the moment, since his hesitation to come back to the place he’s always felt more at ease in doesn’t make a lot of sense. He hasn’t even stepped foot into the bookshop since it burned down and magically came back together thanks to some Antichrist magic. He should want to go see it for himself.

Nevertheless, his heart had dropped low on his chest at Crowley’s words.

He has an inkling as to why, though: he simply doesn’t want this night to end. He could always ask Crowley to come inside and have another glass with him, but that feels wrong tonight, inexplicably. [9]

He doesn’t have time to give this a lot of thought, though; Crowley has asked him a question that needs answering.

“I was thinking… I’d rather we go for a ride. Of course, if you’d like to.”

Crowley blinks at him. Aziraphale, naturally, had no way of knowing this, since the demon’s eyes are still obscured by his Valentinos.

“You want to go for a ride… In the Bentley...”

“Yes.”

“With me driving?”

Crowley has no idea how he’s managed to get the angel to ride in the car with him in the first place. The first time he’d done it, it was 1941, and if the angel had been somewhat pliable may have had something to do with the fact that Crowley saved a bunch of Aziraphale’s books, or so the demon suspects.

It was an impressive feat Aziraphale had agreed to sit in the Bentley’s passenger seat the next few times. Mind you, the angel had progressively gotten more used to Crowley’s erratic driving as time went by.

But that didn’t mean Crowley would have ever pictured Aziraphale asking to be subjected to such a thing in his own volition.

That’s, however, what’s happening at the moment.

Aziraphale looks at him with feigned determination. “Yes, Crowley, that’s what I’m asking.”

Crowley doesn’t have time to unpack that, so he doesn’t press further.

“Alright,” he says, and finally steps into the driver’s seat. Once Aziraphale is sitting next to him, he asks, “Where do you wanna go?”

“Ah, wherever you’d like, dear boy.”

When Crowley turns the ignition and the Bentley awakens, the speakers are already blasting a song.

For one reason or another, this is the first time Aziraphale is listening to it.

_“-er so lonely from time to time_  
_I will find you anywhere you go_  
_I'll be right behind you_  
_Right until the ends of the earth.”_

Crowley slightly winces, he can’t explain why.[10]

He reaches to turn the volume down. He pulls away from the parking spot and into the street, already driving at a speed certainly not allowed in central London. He’s not exactly sure where he’s going either.

Silence remains inside the Bentley while the song hums low on the radio. A new song starts playing.

The Bentley decides this next one will be heard.

_“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_  
_We can do the tango just for two_  
_I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings_  
_Be your Valentino just for you.”_

Crowley gulps and reaches to turn the volume down again. As they race through London’s streets, he finally speaks again. “I reckon we’re free men now.”

Aziraphale nods. He wants to point out that neither of them are men.[11] However, he doesn’t. He gathers that choosing humanity over Heaven and Hell suffices for the word to fit them now. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

_“Ooh let me feel your heartbeat (grow faster, faster)...”_

Crowley takes his eyes off the road to look at Aziraphale. The Bentley takes charge and keeps leading them away from the heart of the city, with a particular place in mind, somewhat close to nowhere.

“What are you planning to do? Now that Upstairs won’t be bothering you?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I haven’t… really thought about that, now that you mention it.”[12]

“What about you?” he continues. “Any plans on mind?”

Crowley could mention a hundred, one more unlikely than the other.

Instead, he says, “Not really.”

The Bentley turns up the volume tenfold.

_“And tell me how do you feel right after-all_  
_I'd like for you and I to go romancing_  
_Say the word, your wish is my command”_

Aziraphale covers his ears to shield them from the Bentley’s ambush. Crowley panics.

Crowley, however, considers himself the face of coolness[13] and therefore will not show how much he’s panicking.

“_-ooh loverboy_  
_What're you doin' tonight, hey boy!”_ goes the Bentley as Crowley miracles the volume back to something that won’t rupture their eardrums, and wills it to stay that way. The Bentley relents, momentarily.

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He sets his jaw straight. “It gets excited sometimes.”

Aziraphale regards Crowley for two more seconds and then nods, turning to look forward. They’ve gotten close enough to London’s outskirts for the little time they’ve been driving to call it a record.

Crowley clears his throat. “Anyways, I guess it's a good idea to leave London.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Leave London? And go where?”

“Anywhere, really,” he says, shrugging. “Below and Above should be off our backs for a while, but I don’t trust that’s going to last. Best step away from the place they know they can find us at.”

“Us?” Aziraphale turns to look at him. “You mean I should leave London too?”

“It’s the safest thing, angel.”

“But- but, the books! Oh, it’s been so long since I moved anywhere, I don’t know if I could leave it all behind!” Aziraphale laments.

Crowley clicks his tongue. “You don’t have to leave it all behind. You can take your books. Better for you, no more customers trying to get their hands on them.”

Aziraphale works his mouth over words he’s not going to say.

He huffs and deflates into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Crowley frowns. “I thought you’d like the idea of keeping all your books to yourself.”

Aziraphale scrunches up his nose. “I do. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Crowley asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“I _like_ London. The parks, restaurants, theatres, my bookshop. I don’t want to leave it.”

“There’s more of those in other places you know? Well—” Crowley muses, “bar your bookshop, of course. You could set up a new one if you wanted to.”

Aziraphale looks offended “It’s simply not the same! London has- has memories!”

“Memories?” Crowley huffs.

“Yes, Crowley, _memories!_”

“You haven’t even spent nearly the same amount of time living in London as you have in other places! Surely you have more memories in Rome than you have here,” the demon retorts.

“It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality! The ones I’ve made here are more meaningful!”

Crowley frowns. “Then enlighten me, angel, what make them more meaningful?”

Aziraphale blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns to look at the road. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The problem is Crowley would understand. Aziraphale feels the need to say it. But he’s still afraid.

Crowley sighs and puts his eyes back on the road. 

“Did you have any place in mind?” Aziraphale asks after a while, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“What?” replies Crowley, distracted.

“If you plan to move somewhere else, you’ll surely have somewhere you want to go? Maybe Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah… that was more of an escape plan. I was thinking something more local.”

Aziraphale hums. Then, “Oh! I never asked you— why didn’t you leave?”

Crowley internally grimaces. “Told ya. Stuff got in the way.”

“You said so, yes.” And then Aziraphale remembers, “Oh —I’m terribly sorry about your friend. What was their name?”

Crowley is sort of stunned. The Bentley considerably lowers it’s pace. “What?”

“You said you lost your best friend. You never told me their name.”

The Bentley pulls up on the side of the road. They aren’t in the city anymore.

Every fiber of his being is warning him against this. Telling Aziraphale a lie would make things so much easier, but he doesn’t want that. He really doesn’t want that.

“Why did we stop?” the angel asks, confused.

Crowley kills the engine, and ignores that in favor of turning his whole body to face him. “Aziraphale, how many friends do I have?” His voice is close to a whisper, soft at the edges. Crowley doesn’t let himself sound like that very often.

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, you’ve made friends with humans over the ages. And maybe you were friends with someone in Hell.”

“No— no, Aziraphale, how many true friends do I have?” 

Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley’s face looks almost sad. Longing.

“I— I don’t—”

“I thought you were dead,” Crowley interrupts. “The bookshop burned and I couldn’t find you anywhere. I couldn’t sense you. You’d never let your books burn—”

He’s crying. He’s never cried before.

Aziraphale takes his hand.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers.

Crowley wipes his face without taking his sunglasses off. “I wasn’t ever gonna leave, you know. Not if you stayed behind.”

Aziraphale tightens the hold on his hand. “Why?”

And _damn it all_, Crowley thinks. He can’t keep it in anymore.

He smiles, sad. “You know why.”

Aziraphale holds his breath.

He shuffles closer, and places a hand on Crowley’s cheek, while the other reaches to take the sunglasses off the demon’s face.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asks, voice close to a murmur.

“May I?”

It’s two words. They could mean anything. However, they mean _this._

Crowley nods. Aziraphale inches closer, cups Crowley’s face with both hands and rests their foreheads together. It’s gentle. Slow. Like everything else about their story has been.

When their lips brush together, all air escapes Crowley’s lungs.

The kiss is sweet. Tastes a bit like alcohol, and nonetheless, it’s the sweetest thing Crowley’s ever tasted. The warmth that spreads in his chest is the closest thing to Their Grace he’s felt inside of him in ages, and yet it’s so much better.

Aziraphale’s thumbs caress his cheeks slowly, sickeningly tender. Crowley’s hands slowly reach for Aziraphale and find themselves comfortable between curls of pale blonde hair.

When they break apart, inches between them, Crowley asks, “How long?”

“Too long, darling,” Aziraphale smiles. “Just took me a while to understand.”

Crowley blinks and sits back, not putting enough distance between them for the moment to be broken. “But— how?”

“Well,” Aziraphale starts “I’ve known for sure since 1941.”

“_Nineteen_— Why didn’t you say anything?!” Crowley’s eyes are wide. Aziraphale notes how beautiful they are.

“I was scared. You had asked me for the holy water and I— I—”

Then it finally dawns on Crowley.

“You thought I was gonna use it on myself.”

“If I opened up my heart— if I let myself feel everything I feel for you— it would have been a thousand times more painful if you ever decided to go” Aziraphale confesses.

Crowley kisses him again. And again. And again, and again, and _again._ He could kiss him forever, but he needs to say—

“I could never— How could I ever leave you behind?” His voice is raspy, and his eyes are filled with so much intensity. Aziraphale has never felt more in love.

“So when you said all that— about leaving London—”

“Yes, I meant _with you_, you bloody idiot.”

Aziraphale laughs, giddy with happiness. Crowley gifts him with a tender smile.

They rest their foreheads together, but don’t kiss again. They simply keep smiling and taking in everything. After all, that’s about years and years —millenia, for Crowley— of unsaid things finally being spoken. Basking in the happiness it brings them should, reasonably, take them a while.

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again Crowley is already staring at him. He smiles and says, “Should we go home, then?”

Crowley smiles back, “Sure.”

That’s when Aziraphale recons it’s high time he pays attention to his surroundings. They’re in the middle of a field, it seems.

“Where are we?”

Crowley takes his time to look around. “No bloody clue.”

He turns on the ignition. The Bentley comes back to life. In the middle of a song it seems

_“—ny sound that you make_  
_Is a whisper in my ear_  
_I could give up all my life for just one kiss_  
_I would surely die”_

Crowley grunts. “Shut up you old thing. I get it. He’s got it.”

Crowley reaches for the radio to change the song, but Aziraphale catches his hand. “No —let it play.”

Crowley grimaces. “Please,” Aziraphale pleads. Crowley sighs and pulls the car back onto the road.

_“—So please don't go_  
_Don't leave me here all by myself_  
_I get ever so lonely from time to time_  
_I will find you_  
_Anywhere you go, I'll be right behind you_  
_Right until the ends of the Earth_  
_I'll get no sleep till I find you to tell you_  
_That you just take my breath away_

_I will find you_  
_Anywhere you go_  
_Right until the ends of the Earth_  
_I'll get no sleep till I find you to_  
_Tell you when I've found you -_  
_I love you”_

He takes Crowley’s hand when it leaves the gear lever. Mercury keeps singing.

Aziraphale thinks that it doesn’t matter if they live in London or not— anywhere is home as long as they stick together.

“You know, it’s been a long time since we’ve been somewhere quiet. Lower Tadfield was a beautiful place… a nice cottage in the South Downs does sound pleasant, doesn’t it?”

Crowley pretends to consider it. “Hm… I think I could get used to something like that.”

Aziraphale knew that there was a momentum carrying them forward, he just didn’t know where it would take them. 

He’s happy it was here.

* * *

11 Extracted from QueenZone.com [return to text]

22Unlike his counterpart. [return to text]

33What’s also debatable is whether coincidences are a thing at all, or just intentional nudges made by a being who thinks destiny is a funny thing, too funny to actually utter.[return to text]

44Were demonic miracles involved, is not up to discussion. [return to text]

55The Bentley does not have a heart, it has an engine. But for the sake of the expression, this fact will be omitted.[return to text]

66That’s not the case, of course. Crowley had simply heard in the lyrics a bit of his own heart, and had been painfully reminded of a certain angel, a certain night, and certain words.[return to text]

77It wouldn’t be until around 2010 when the Bentley realizes there’s actually a way to communicate with Crowley, and that’s by taking control of the radio, and not some telepathic link.[return to text]

88Were one capable of such a thing, a cosmic snicker would be heard.[return to text]

99Maybe it’s because he’s afraid that this, whatever it is, will stop existing once they get back to their routine. As if the little bubble of new reality that they built around themselves while dining at the Ritz would suddenly pop. As if all the momentum that has been carrying them forwards suddenly stopped in its tracks and left them fumbling for some balance.[return to text]

1010Crowley wouldn’t be able to put it into words if he tried to, but the reader must understand that if he does wince, it’s because this song belongs somewhere deep inside his heart. A good comparison for the feeling would be the following: were the reader to have a secret written on a paper, locked up in a box with a padlock, stashed away in a drawer, a secret of great importance to the dear reader, it’d be as if the drawer had opened, the padlock magically unlocked and the wind had taken the secret for a ride, flaunting it into people’s faces on the street, people who have no intention whatsoever to read said secret. The reader, however, is rendered unable to go fetch their piece of paper, and instead can only stand and watch as it hits several people in their faces, wishing every time that none of them will be curious enough to actually read it. [10.2][return to text]

10.210.2What the reader would be unaware of in this scenario would be that, were their secret to actually be read by one of the passersby, their life would turn on its hinges. Not in the way the reader fears: the reader thinks that if this were to happen, their life would become drastically more lonesome, something the reader fervently wants to avoid. Instead, reality would prove to be quite the opposite.[return to text]

1111They aren’t, in fact. At least not in the way humans understand it. The binaries of gender don’t bother entities as old as time.[return to text]

1212It’s not a lie, per se. He hasn’t because he’s never allowed himself. [12.2] Every time he felt his mind wandering down that road, he felt guilty about the _what ifs_, convinced they could only ever be a fantasy —one that he shouldn’t be having in the first place!— and therefore, it’d be stupid to think about things that would surely never come to be. He’d never thought there’d be a time were he wouldn’t be working for Heaven.[return to text]

12.212.2This is true, for all but one night. One fogged by alcohol and the hazy memory of a moustached stranger.[return to text]

1313He’s not.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> THIS HTML,,, WAS FUCKING HELL
> 
> anyways leave kudos and comments if you liked it please!!! follow me on twitter and tumblr if you'd like to!


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